Fragile Balance
by brynerose
Summary: The torture to Sam's mind takes a toll-one the brothers never expected.  The question is, can Sam recover before the leviathans can catch up to them?  Typical Winchester language, brotherly fluff.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: hiatus adventure and semi-AU taking place between 7.10 and 7.11 ('Death's Door' and 'Adventures in Babysitting). My take on what could contribute to Sam's fritzing mental state.**

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><p>"Dude, that's not going to fit in the car long-term. The less stuff, the better; that's how we've always lived," balked Dean as Sam tried to load a third box into the Impala.<p>

"Says the guy who grabbed Bobby's best guns, his switchblade, and all the beer he had left," Sam shot right back.

"That stuff is actually useful!"

"So are these books. Bobby helped us how many times with research? This is how he did it." Sam put the box in the back seat, and shut the door. "So we do like he did and stash most of it in various lockups. But for now, they have to go in the car."

Nearly a week had passed since they cremated Bobby's remains. At first, the shock was so great that both Winchesters barely moved, much less left their motel room. Then grief set in, and Dean especially got so drunk there was no way they could go anywhere for days. Their dad's death was hard, but Bobby had become so much more in recent years. They truly felt lost without him.

"Fine," grumbled Dean. He climbed into the driver's seat, slamming the door. Sam followed suit on the passenger's side. "So, where to now?"

"Minnesota. I found some leads on what looks like a gathering of spirits in a town outside Minneapolis."

"Should be interesting."

Dean cranked the stereo even louder than usual, as if trying to blast his emotions into the dust trailing behind them. Sam clutched his ears protectively. To say they were having a hard time with the loss of Bobby was a gross understatement. While Sam didn't agree with Dean's way of coping, heavy silence wasn't appealing either. And Dean was driving, which pretty much negated Sam's opinion, anyway. So he held his tongue…and his head.

They beelined pretty well through the eastern states, stopping only for lunch and gas. Around three in the afternoon Dean finally got tired of his live-concert acoustics, and Sam was able to take a nap. Long driving days were soporific whether or not he was doing the driving. Anyway, he hadn't slept well the night before. Hallucifer was becoming increasingly lonely in the night hours…

They made it to seven o'clock and somewhere near the Pennsylvania/Ohio line before stopping for dinner. Sam hadn't shaken the headache from the stereo yet, only to find out the diner they had found boasted an enthusiastic bluegrass ambiance.

"Hey, food is food," muttered Dean as they sat down. Despite his rumbling stomach, Sam didn't really feel like eating. He picked through a wilted excuse for a salad and tried not to watch Dean inhaling his typical greasy cheeseburger.

When they left, dusk was settling in around them. Maybe it was just a trick of the fuzzy outside lighting, but Sam's balance kept wavering ever so slightly. His head felt worse even though he had choked down a couple of painkillers half an hour ago. Only when he had to fumble for the car door handle did Dean start to notice.

"Hey, you feeling alright?" his older brother asked. "The waitress slip you something? I knew she looked shady."

"Dean, it's more than that. I've been feeling it come and go for awhile, since Bobby…" Patches of darkness interrupted Sam's thoughts. He didn't know if he was imagining scenes of Hell out of habit or not, but as he pressed his thumb into his scarred hand, consciousness completely abandoned him.

"Sam!"

Dean bolted around the car as Sam fell against it, convulsing. A few bystanders called out in surprise. One said, "Hang on, I'm calling 911." Dean tried to wrestle his flailing brother still.

"Sammy—Sam! Listen to me, whatever you're seeing, it's not real. You got that? I'm right here, right here." He tried Sam's palm to snap him out of it, then tried to hold his head steady, and finally had to pull him away from the car before he could hurt himself. This wasn't a normal hallucination (if that could be called normal in the first place). Sam was seizing just like back in Sioux Falls…and it wasn't stopping on its own.

Someone approached Dean from behind. "An ambulance is on its way. I'm an RN, I can help." The man who had mentioned calling 911 carefully turned Sam on his side, using a jacket to support Sam's head and keep his airway clear. "Is he prone to seizures like this?"

"No," croaked Dean. "He's only had one, a few months ago, after getting a concussion. Since then he's been fine."

The man felt for Sam's jugular. "Pulse is fast, but no abnormal rhythm that I can tell. Any allergies, or any unusual occurrences or behavior before this?"

"Uh, he complained of a headache, but I had the stereo cranked most of the day. Eats healthy, even on road trips. No allergies that I've ever seen." He refrained from mentioning that Sam had _died_ a number of times prior to this.

"Are you brothers?"

"Yeah."

Sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer, until Dean saw flashing lights over the tops of the cars. The few people daring to watch jumped out of the way. The ambulance pulled past them so the back door was closest. Two emergency technicians hopped out with portable equipment.

"Let us through! What's the emergency?" one asked while the other unloaded the gurney.

"Male, late twenties, no significant medical history except a recent concussion, in a seizure for going on seven minutes," the nurse replied quickly. "Pulse around 145, respiration as normal as can be expected. This man here is his brother."

"This is an abnormal occurrence?" rapped the EMT, this time to Dean. Dean nodded emphatically.

"Way abnormal. Can you help him?"

"We'll do our best. The nearest hospital is ten minutes away; you'll need to follow in your own car so we have space to work." At this point, the EMT turned his attention to readying the gurney. He and his partner lifted Sam on the count of three, strapped him down, and started oxygen and fluids in one seemingly continuous motion. "Let's get him in the bus and hooked up!"


	2. Chapter 2

"_Let's get him in the bus and hooked up!"_

Dean felt a bit lost being left in the wake of this. All he could think about was that it had finally happened—Sam was broken, lost for good. He knew it was just a matter of time after the wall fell. Sam had been overtaken by his own mind. _Sammy…_ Only the nurse's prompting galvanized him back to the Impala. The EMT was right, of course. No point leaving themselves stranded by not taking the car to the hospital. Besides, his steel-framed baby was the next most important thing after Sam.

He used the ambulance's speed as a reason to ignore most traffic laws, not that he gave them extreme thought anyway. In no time, they pulled into the bright complex of the hospital. But by the time Dean parked the car and ran inside, Sam had disappeared behind that impenetrable fortress of the trauma unit. Nothing else to do but wait in the stifling, cheap-furnished outer space of the emergency room. A desk clerk brought him the necessary forms, which Dean completed numbly. He asked the clerk how long a wait to expect, only to have her shrug. _"Depends on the nature of the emergency."_

Dean fidgeted, poked through magazines, paced. Other patients and families filed in and out. The clock inched toward eleven. A car crash victim was rushed through. Dean was exhausted, and yet so adrenaline-driven that rest was impossible.

"Mr. Rose?"

A weary-looking doctor approached Dean at last, the first person since the desk clerk to actually speak to him. They shook hands. "I'm Dr. Harvey, the one heading up your brother's case. First, do you need anything? Coffee?"

"Coffee would be great," sighed Dean. The situation couldn't be good if the doctor was already buttering him up like this.

"This way. There are also vending machines if you need something to eat. We could be here awhile," the doctor continued as they walked.

"Just lay it on me, Doc. What's wrong with Sam?"

Dr. Harvey took a deep breath. "He's stabilized for now. We were able to end the seizure without lasting difficulties, as far as we can tell right now. However, a preliminary MRI picked up a mass in Sam's brain."

"You mean he's got a brain tumor?"

"In many cases, it turns out to be benign, though we're awaiting biopsy results to make sure. But it's started putting pressure on his brain, especially the sensory perception areas. Has Sam been complaining of headaches, trouble sleeping?"

"A little, but it's never been out of line with our jobs. I didn't think it was any different," Dean brushed off. _This is going to be tricky_.

"Any mention of hallucinations?"

Dean bit his lip. "He's been sleeping—or trying to, anyway—more than usual. I thought he was just having weird dreams, and he wouldn't go into detail."

The doctor nodded as he took all this in. "Well, I have to say at this point the best option is surgery. If the tumor continues to grow, it could start causing real damage to the brain tissue. Of course, no procedure like this is without risks." He fixed Dean with a steady, concerned gaze. Dean felt his heart clench.

"What kind of risks are we looking at?"

"Sometimes tumors, even benign ones, become entangled as they grow. We might not be able to remove the entire mass, in which case the situation is likely to repeat itself over time. There is a chance of sensory damage as we try to maneuver during surgery. Brain swelling is always a side effect to monitor. Those are the most common."

"Oh God, Sammy…" Dean put a hand to the wall to steady himself.

"He'll also need cognitive therapy afterwards, so I suggest an extended leave from work, at least for Sam. Reduced stress and simple mental exercises will help him recover as fully as possible."

After everything they had been through, fought off, survived, Dean never expected to face this. And yet, the effects of hunting, of being to _Hell AND back_, had to take a physical toll sooner or later. He just hadn't considered this as a possible outcome.

"I understand this is a sudden and difficult decision. I encourage you to take the proper time to consider what you and your brother want to do. However I will say, in his case, the sooner we act, the better chance we have."

Dean nodded, only half listening now. "Can…can I see him?"

"Of course." Dr. Harvey handed him a piping cup of black coffee. "We put him under mild sedation for initial treatment, but he should be waking up from that any moment." He led Dean through the pristine halls to the observation ward. They found Sam at the end of a series of curtained partitions, comfortably situated though still out cold. Aside from the ambulance IV and a monitor for his vitals, he looked normal. "I'll leave you to it. Use the call button if you need anything."

"Thanks." The doctor took his leave, and Dean sank into the chair by Sam's bed. First Bobby, then this. Ever since the leviathans escaped, their lives had been constant, full-tilt running. Sam's recovery put them at great risk, having to stay put for awhile. At the same time, he couldn't continue hunting in his condition. Sam's life _depended_ on his being fully functional. _Shit…why did this have to happen? Sam battling Lucifer, getting trapped in Hell with the bastard, only to be pulled back out without his soul. Then I put him through Hell again by having his soul retrieved. Cass breaking the wall and letting Hell get at Sam with full force. Dammit!_

Dean punched the wall in frustration. He only got a sore fist for his troubles, and someone down the ward complained, "Hey, keep it down, will ya?"

He was spared the need to try to respond as Sam stirred. His little brother groaned softly, immediately reaching for the foreign sensation of a needle in his left hand. Dean stopped him.

"Cut that out. Don't give them a reason to drug you again."

"Wha…?" Sam apparently had trouble muddling into consciousness. His eyes took too long to focus on Dean. Yep, this was serious. "Where are we?"

"Nearest hospital from the diner. You had a seizure, Sammy. You're uh…you're having some complications with that grapefruit of yours…"

When Sam woke up the next morning, the dread still weighed in his stomach. A brain tumor. All the supernatural crap that had messed with his head in the past year was manifesting in real, physical consequences. Now the headaches, the extra problems getting rid of his hallucinations, everything started to make sense. Hell, it could _all_ be a product of an unwanted mass causing pressure in his head! He had no way of telling the difference.

Neither Winchester could deny the catch-22 this put them in. No way could Sam hunt like this, nor did he feel comfortable hunting when he could flip out without warning. On the other hand, the longer they stayed put, the more likely leviathans could track them down. And Sam would be unable to fight anyway. Not to mention how they were going to afford the procedures and treatments.

"I don't see how we're going to get around this," Dean concluded while Sam picked at his hospital lunch. "Doc said if we leave this alone, you're not just going to be handicapped. It's going to get worse. I can't watch you go through that, Sammy. Not when I can do something about it. We're sure as hell not being offered help from anyone with the mojo to zap you back to normal."

"I know. Trust me, I don't feel any better about this than you do. But you think you can hold down the fort by yourself long enough for me to pull out of this? I'm a sitting duck like this." Sam dropped his fork to massage his temples.

"Hey, you okay? You need anything?"

"It's going away. Just a quick throb," Sam tried to reassure his brother. Unexpectedly, it made him chuckle. "Kinda reminds me of back when I would get those premonitions."

"Yeah, that was all kinds of laughs. Dude, take it easy. We'll get through this, just like everything else. And the sooner we get this over with, the sooner you're better and we can get out of here."

"_If_ I get better, Dean. There's a real chance that I won't come out of this perfectly normal again."

"Don't talk like that," snapped Dean. "Anyway, you were never normal, face it. Both of us have been karma's bitches form the start." He paused to regain composure, clapping a hand to Sam's shoulder protectively. "I'll tell the Doc we want to go ahead with the surgery. You take it easy. Finish your lunch."

"Whatever. I'm not five anymore." They shared a lighthearted grin just because they could.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: I forgot to mention this last chapter, but it still applies-I don't pretend to have exact medical knowledge as it would pertain to this situation. Please don't harp on me if I fudged something for plot purposes. However, I am married to a med student, so I did reference him for as much as I could. I do my best.**

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><p>Luck was on their side for the moment; they only had to wait a few days to schedule the OR. Sam's status as an inpatient and the necessity of the procedure helped their case. Unfortunately, it did nothing to ease their anxieties on the day of.<p>

"It's gonna be fine, Sammy. I'll be waiting on the flipside," Dean rambled, not quite willing to let go of his little brother's shoulder. Sam's eyes were growing wild with fear. Reclined in the hospital bed, he tugged fretfully at his sheets and gown.

"What if…what if something goes wrong? What if it doesn't fix anything? What if—"

"Hey, what I tell you about talking like that? You're coming back out of this, and you're going to wake up, and get better from there. Don't let yourself think any different."

Sam clutched at Dean's arm with his IVed hand. "I'm scared. I don't think I've ever been this scared in my life. Well, I guess there was having to jump voluntarily into Hell…"

Dean ruffled Sam's shaggy brown hair. "You have every right to be. I'm scared too. But we can't let it eat us up. It's just like any other hunt we've been on, you're just…not the one doing the hunting."

A nurse and the anesthesiologist walked in. "I'm sorry, but we need to get started," said the latter.

"Can—can Dean stay until I'm knocked out?" Sam asked weakly. "Please?"

"It's not something we typically allow…but I suppose so. As soon as he's under, though, you'll need to leave. Understand?"

Dean nodded.

The nurse hung a bag next to the fresh dextrose Sam was given not too long ago. Sam focused on Dean, obviously fighting to control his breathing. The heart monitor beeped more and more rapidly. Anxiety tore at Dean's gut.

"Sam, I need you to relax," coaxed the anesthesiologist. "You're in good hands. Deep breath in, and let it out."

Dean kept his hand firmly on Sam's shoulder. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sam's heart rate slowly came back down. His hazel eyes remained locked with Dean's green ones. The anesthesiologist took Sam's auxiliary IV port in one hand, and the tube to the new bag in the other.

"You're going to start feeling sleepy here in a second. Don't fight it. It's all going to be over with when you wake up again. And you _will_ wake up. That's my job. Here we go."

Sam's head slipped to the side as his eyes closed, every muscle relaxing into the soft mattress underneath him. Dean reluctantly pulled away.

"We'll take care of him," said the nurse. "Now, we need you to move to the waiting area. Once he's out of surgery, I'll take you to his recovery room."

Tension rendered Dean unable to speak. He watched them wheel his unconscious brother away, to have his head cut into. It took all the effort he possessed to do as the nurse asked and head to the waiting room. This one was noticeably more comfortable than the ER. Plush chairs and couches lined the space, flanked by sleek wooden end tables with magazines. Coffee, tea, and some packaged muffins sat in one corner. Everything focused toward a TV screen, though it was dark at the moment. He supposed this was all to help soothe family members' nerves. Only the receptionist and one other person was there, a woman rocking a two-year-old. She attempted to smile at Dean as he sat.

"Just saw someone off?"

"You could call it that," he answered hoarsely. "I thought my brother and I would be in Minnesota by now, but instead he's…in there."

"I wish I could say the same. This is my son's fourth surgery in two years." The woman blinked back tears, and held her toddler closer. "We've spent a lot of time here. He's battled a heart defect since he was six months old. This is his twin sister."

"I'm so sorry, Ma'am." And Dean truly was. He and Sam were close, all they had left on earth, but he couldn't imagine the pain of bringing a child into the world only to know they're going to die.

"He's taught us to treasure the time that we have," she told him.

A nurse Dean didn't recognize appeared. The woman shifted her sleeping daughter to her hip, and gathered her things. Dean helped her.

"Good luck to your brother. No matter what has happened, or will happen, always cherish the time you've shared. It's the greatest gift you have." She followed the nurse out.

If Dean had been a normal guy, he might have thought he had just met an angel. Except he had dealt with the Apocalypse, and unfortunately, angels weren't as comforting as this ordinary, human woman. Maybe there was hope for this miserable world after all.


	4. Chapter 4

Hours later, Dean was led to yet another room, this time in adult extended recovery with only one other bed. For the time being, they had the room to themselves. He found himself uncharacteristically hesitant—this was his baby brother, fresh out of major surgery! At the same time, he had to know that Sammy was okay. That was his job.

Sam lay pitifully still in his bed. Bandages and a mesh cap hid most of his messy hair (Dean couldn't resist a smile at the thought of the uneven patch his brother would have for some time). He once more sported a nasal oxygen feed, though the nurse assured Dean it wouldn't be necessary after Sam reawakened. The skin under his eyes looked bruised. All in all, the sight made Dean want to cry. Sam looked utterly helpless.

"Please, you gotta be okay…you can't let this take you out, not after everything we've beaten…"

Sam didn't regain consciousness until three days later, he was told. Drug-induced coma, until the brain swelling subsided. Typical for the procedure. His first perception was that his whole head felt like a huge wad of cotton. Then he realized his neck tickled from the bandages pressing his hair down. An oxygen feed snaked around his face. He could tell that (thankfully) comfortable pajama pants and a t-shirt replaced the awkward surgery gown. Gradually, the dry, unpleasant sensation of being thirsty rose to his attention.

He convinced his heavy eyelids to lift. Curtains muted the daylight coming through the window. Another curtain partition blocked the view of the door. His room was silent except for the steady beep of his heart monitor. Across from him, a second bed sat empty, and to his left—when he made the great effort to turn his head—was Dean, stretched out and snoring on a fold out armchair/bed.

"Dean…?" Sam rasped. His older brother jumped as if an air horn had gone off.

"Yeah—I'm here—pick me," he burst out sleepily. The groggy response quickly faded, however, when he realized Sam was watching him. "Sam!"

Sam managed tired grin. "Still in one piece, I see."

"How're you feeling? Be honest. I'm under orders to make sure you don't try to tough-guy this out." Nothing could describe the pure relief flooding Dean's face at this moment.

"It's all still numb right now. But I could use some water. My throat's like sandpaper."

Dean obliged with gusto, making sure Sam went slow enough so he didn't choke. "God, I can't tell you how much better this all feels to see you awake. Don't go making a habit of needing life-saving surgeries. I don't think I could stand seeing you like that again."

"Okay, I promise," chuckled Sam. He grasped Dean's forearm warmly. "So, how bad does it look?"

"Well, I imagine under all that cotton you look like the surfer monk who couldn't sit still for his haircut. Other than that, you look fine. Once you get past the whole hospital getup."

They let conversation drop into silence, savoring the victory of having cleared the first hurdle. Sam felt like a weight had been taken off his shoulders. The constant thrum of hyper-alertness, the endless sense of anticipation of his next mental episode, it was all gone. He felt relaxed. True, a fair bit of it was probably whatever pain meds they had him on, but it was a welcome respite nonetheless. It was like he could breathe properly for the first time in ages.

A soft knock came from the hidden door. "Come in," called Dean. In walked Dr. Harvey.

"I see you're emerging well from sedation. I'm just here to give you a check over, and explain where we go from here," he stated, noting Sam's vitals. A nurse brought a tray of packaged supplies while he donned a pair of sterile gloves. "Alright, we're going to raise you up enough that I can take a look at your head. You should be starting to regain sensation in the area of surgery, so there might be some discomfort." The doctor carefully undid Sam's head dressing. Dean watched curiously, but quickly seemed to regret it. Sam tried not to imagine what the back of his skull looked like.

"Not bad at all. The stitches are holding nicely, and there's no abnormal swelling or discoloration around them. Everything feel alright? No vision trouble, ringing in the ears, or anything else that doesn't feel right?"

Sam had to consciously respond without shaking his head. "Nope. Aside from still being mostly numb, I feel fine. Hungry, though."

"I'll let the nurse's desk know to bring you something plain and easy to handle. Sometimes the antibiotics and painkillers leave you a little queasy at first." Dr. Harvey applied fresh bandages, and deposited the old ones with his gloves into the biohazard container. "I want to take another MRI this afternoon to assess how you're doing on the inside. We removed all of the mass we could see, but it's always best to check. All in all, the procedure went very cleanly. No adverse reactions or complications during surgery.

"Next, we'll start working on cognitive testing. Sometimes brain surgery leaves certain sensory responses or fine motor skills a bit shaky. They're easy enough to build back up, especially with how well you're doing, Sam. Of course, no driving or anything like it until you're off medication and your hand-eye coordination is up to par. I'd estimate about a month. Listen to how your head feels."

"How much of this 'cognitive testing' will need to be done here?" Dean asked at this point. "I mean, can we just use drawing and some flash cards or something?"

"Sam will certainly get to that point. First I need to determine some key features—walking, balance, proper tracking of and reacting to external stimuli. After that, with follow up appointments, he should be okay to recover on his own," explained Dr. Harvey.

"Let's go then," said Sam. He reached to pull the covers off, only for Dean to grab his wrist. Dr. Harvey smiled.

"I admire your enthusiasm. However, I will tell you, you're still going to feel quite unsteady until you've transitioned to lighter medication. That numbness in your head? Very powerful stuff. We'll take things one step at a time. Starting with food." Dr. Harvey took his leave.

Sam fidgeted like a six-year-old. He wanted to get moving again! The longer he was laid up, the more time leviathans had to track them down. And regardless, he wasn't used to staying still very long. Both he and Dean had grown up with grueling training programs that kept them in top condition for fighting monsters. Even after recovering, it could be much longer before he was physically fit again…

"Hey, cut that out," Dean said out of the blue. "You just had a hole drilled in your head. We may not like it, but we're gonna have to go with the Doc's orders on this."

"I know…doesn't mean I have to like it." Outside of his hunger and fuzzy semi-numbness, Sam also detected a new sensation. "Um, Dean…? I need to, uh…"

Dean stared at him. "Seriously, dude? Although I guess after this long…"

"Thanks for that mental image, Dean. I can go by myself, I just need to make sure I can get there and back without keeling over," Sam growled at his brother, who couldn't keep that stupid, immature grin off his face. While he carefully shifted his legs to the side of the bed, Dean grabbed the IV/monitor pole.

Sam immediately realized what Dr. Harvey had warned about—as soon as his feet touched the floor, he seemed to be floating over a wildly pitching world. Dean grabbed his arm as he tried to steady himself against the mattress.

"You sure this is a good idea?" asked Dean.

"I kinda need to, Dean. Nature calls."

"This is a hospital! Why d'ya think bedpans were invented? You were already stuck in bed for three days."

"That's gross."

They inched over to the bathroom. Once he reached the safety bars, Sam shooed Dean out and shut the door. Even then he could hear snickering through the hollow faux-wood. _I'll probably never completely live this down._

It dawned on him how peaceful the simple little room was. How empty. Undergoing surgery had the benefit of a dreamless sleep (which was impossible to come by after lifelong hunting), but Hallucifer was nowhere to be found. Sam was blessedly _alone_. That fact more than anything boosted his energy. Maybe things were finally looking up.

As he washed his hands, he took the time to examine how he looked. Pale, though fairly alert. His eyes looked a little bruised, apparently one effect of operating on the sensory part of the brain. The bandages around his head mashed down his greasy hair. Ragged stubble darkened the lower half of his face. He actually looked…older.

A knock on the door made him jump, which made his head spin a bit. "You haven't keeled over on me, have you?"

"No," Sam called to Dean. "I'm done." And he opened the door. Calmer this time, his brother supported him back to bed, where he was surprisingly happy to lay back down. His head was starting to bother him.

"Not so fun to be completely out of it, huh?" commented Dean. Sam had to think to remember that Dean had been through his share of serious recoveries. More than Sam himself had endured, in fact. If it weren't for their overall track record with injuries, death, and returning from the dead, he would have to consider himself lucky.

A different nurse arrived, smiling, with a lidded plastic tray. "Probably not the most exciting breakfast you've had, but it'll get you going again. Ring if you need anything else." She glanced over the vitals monitor before leaving.

"And if you don't eat it all, you don't get to go out and play," Dean teased as Sam removed the lid. "And what a spread! Cheerios, toast, peaches, _and_ apple juice. Livin' the life, man."

"Very funny." Sam went slowly—despite hunger, his stomach took awhile to decide what to do with handling food. Not that he was going to let Dean know he was nauseous. Then he noticed how intently Dean was eyeballing the tray. "Have you eaten at all?"

"Huh? Oh…well, I was kinda preoccupied with keepin' an eye on you…maybe I got bored enough a couple times…then there was falling asleep out of exhaustion…"

"Dean, it's been three days!"

"Okay, okay, I'll get something to eat…unless you're not going to finish that." He pointed to the torn-off piece of toast left on Sam's plate.

"Yes, I'm going to get around to finishing it," sighed Sam. "Go, get some decent food. I can survive long enough for you to do that."

"Bitch."

"Jerk."

Dean swiped the toast anyway, and set out for the cafeteria, only a few turns and one floor away. Sam's attitude reassured him everything was going to be fine, a rare sense these days. Nothing was ever 'fine' in their lives. But hey, he'd take what he could get, however temporary.


	5. Chapter 5

The cafeteria was buzzing; lunch had just started. Dean perused the hot sandwiches, tapping "Back in the Saddle" on his thigh, when Dr. Gaines strolled over to a cooler filled with fruit, pudding, and other cold snacks.

_Wait a minute._

Dean ducked behind the whole fruit stand. _No. Nonononono. Dr. Gaines is dead. Dick Roman made him Hannibal Lector himself! No way!_ He knew leviathans were bound to show up sometime, just not the one who would have a personal grudge against the Winchesters for screwing with his plans, escaping, and eventually getting him killed. Yet there he was, very much alive, and casually scanning the crowd just as Dean had been.

_Shit. Shit shit shit._

Dean kept out of sight until the creep moved on. Knowing Sam would kill him for not eating, he still grabbed a cheeseburger and chips, telling the cashier to keep the change. Out in the seating area, Gaines was stopping a group of nurses on lunch break. One of them was the nurse who had brought Sam's food. Dean slipped behind an elevated flower box.

"Excuse me, I'm looking for Sam and Dean Rose. I'm a close coworker of theirs, and I heard Sam was hospitalized. But the desk won't tell me what room he's in because I'm not a blood relative. Please, I just want to see that they're okay," wheedled Gaines.

_Please_, Dean begged mentally. _Side with the desk and tell him to beat it._

"Oh, so sorry about that. Security measures and all," said the nurse. She practically dripped empathy.

Gaines fixed her with a look that could only be described as _hungry_. "Their uncle told me I should be able to see them. They're like little brothers to me. See, I even have pictures." He pulled out a wallet. Dean glimpsed cropped versions of their mug shots.

"Well, I can't exactly tell you where they're staying, but Sam is on my rounds. He's scheduled for an MRI right about now; a lot of times family and friends will meet up there."

_Thanks lady. And I thought you might be worth hooking up with,_ Dean thought venomously. How had they caught on to his alias so quickly? Rose was a common enough name! He let the thick ferns cover his retreat to the elevator. He had to protect Sam.

As he reached Sam's room, Dr. Harvey and the nurse on duty were wheeling Sam out. His brother looked groggy.

"Hey, you okay?" blurted Dean, a little more intense than he meant to be.

"Pain meds," Sam blew off with a wobbly smile. "It's all good."

"We're just heading to the MRI. Shouldn't be more than about twenty minutes," explained Dr. Harvey.

"Um, can I come with?" Dean asked. Sam fixed him with a mostly-with-it stare.

"Are _you_ okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little protective of my little brother, with everything going on." Dean attempted to smile. He sounded like an idiot. And all the while, he kept expecting Gaines to round a corner. "Oh, um, ah…Uncle Gaines might be dropping in for a visit."

Sam barely managed to contain his shock. If Dr. Harvey or the nurse found the whole exchange odd, they didn't show it.

"We'll talk about it later. Let's get that MRI," Dean finished diffusively.

"No food or drink in the lab wing. You'll have to leave that in the room," said Dr. Harvey, pointing to Dean's lunch bag.

"Oh, ha ha, sure." Dean practically sprinted into the room to drop his bag, out again before Sam's bed moved another foot. On the way out of the ward, they passed a cleaning cart. Dean swiped one of the cleaners under his jacket. The journey to the MRI room went smoothly.

"You'll wait out here," the nurse told him.

"Of course."

Dean sat down on the cushioned bench. Not many people occupied this area, which was good and bad. He'd easily be able to see Gaines coming. Gaines also had an opportunity to strike without worrying about bystanders getting in the way. This was so, so not good. Who knew how many other nasties could be lurking in wait? And yet, as long as Sam's condition was uncertain, Dean couldn't bust him out in good conscience.

"Why, hello Dean. How nice to see you."

Suddenly Gaines was there. Dean jumped clear off his seat.

"Now, what kind of way is that to greet an old friend?"

"Oh, so 'mortal enemies ready to kill each other at any time' now constitutes friends," Dean quipped mirthlessly. "I feel so much less lonely."

Gaines' smile was _way_ too unnatural. "Did you really think you could avoid us forever? An admirable effort. Made the chase that much more entertaining. Too bad your brother couldn't hold out."

"You stay away from my brother, ass hat." Dean gripped the cleaner under his jacket. Gaines calmly rolled up his sleeves. The arms were thin and atrophied, the skin mottled.

"Not pretty or easy, trying to regenerate a host body," he commented. He pulled something that looked like an epi pen from his pocket. "But it's possible. How's your little spy friend, by the way?"

Mentioning Bobby was the last straw. Dean flung the open end of the bottle at Gaines, who howled with pain. Then he punched the leviathan for good measure. As security bustled into the hallway, he shouted, "The restraining order's coming any day; you stay away from us, asshole!"

"What seems to be the problem, sir?" asked the first officer.

"My stepfather—he tried to kill my brother a few weeks ago. He's the reason we're back here again. I don't want him anywhere near Sammy!" Dean fussed dramatically. Even with his considerable lying skills, he was impressed with the cover story he came up with.

"Okay, mister, we're going to ask you to come with us," the second officer told Gaines. "If you do not cooperate, you will be forcibly removed." He put a hand on Gaines' shoulder. The leviathan, glowering and still reeling from the sodium borate bath, chose to stand down for the moment. "You are advised not to return to the hospital once you've been escorted out."

The first officer nodded to Dean. "We'll take care of this. However, I suggest that you avoid openly retaliating, or you might be asked to leave as well."

"Thanks, sorry about that," replied Dean. After the trio left, he stowed the cleaner under the bench and sank down. "That was too close."

He knew it wouldn't keep the leviathans at bay for long, especially if Gaines had friends with him. Hell, he was lucky the officers hadn't been lackies arriving to gang up on him! One thing was for sure, he had to get Sam out of there ASAP.

The nurse stuck her head out. "Is everything alright? We heard shouting."

"It's nothing, security handled it. Just an unwelcome visitor who was not supposed to be here," Dean told her.

"Well, we're about done. We'll take Sam back to his room, and the doctor will be in once he gets the test results."

Dean nodded. Anyway, he was starving.

"What in the world's going on?" Sam asked as soon as they were alone. Dean dug into his now-cold meal. "Gaines is supposed to be dead."

"That's just it, 'supposed to be.' He managed to regenerate himself," Dean told Sam through his full mouth.

"That was the scuffle outside the MRI?"

"Yup. I managed to get him escorted out of the building, and security won't forget him soon. But that's not likely to stop him for long. We need to high-tail it, soon."

"Dean, we don't even know if I have the coordination to run—"

"Doc says you're making great progress. You'll be fine."

"How're we going to pull this off? Seriously?" Sam put his hands to his head at this point, his face pained.

Dean backpedaled. "Okay, okay, let's chill a bit. Take it one step at a time. We just don't have much room left to work, is all. I…I'm sorry."

"No, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for putting us in this position. I'm sorry I'm not in better shape," Sam countered. His hazel eyes betrayed how tired he was.

"Dammit, Sammy, don't do this to yourself. You couldn't help that your head decided to flake on you. Rest. We'll figure out something."


	6. Chapter 6

"Okay, whenever you're ready, I want you to walk from me to Dean. You have the rail if you need it. Take your time," said the physical therapist.

Sam took a deep breath. His head certainly felt steadier. The ground didn't lurch under his bare feet. He tried not to concentrate on the fact that he felt like a 6-foot-4 toddler. His first couple steps were halting. Ahead of him, Dean bit his lip. He couldn't let Dean down. The steps got easier as he went. He could do this. Soon Dean had him by the arm, and he still didn't feel dizzy.

"Well done," declared the therapist, smiling. "How did that feel?"

"Pretty good. Slow, but the ground wasn't trying to get away from me," Sam told her. He started to scratch an itch at the edge of his head dressing. Dean smacked his hand.

"Alright. We'll do it a couple more times before moving on."

Sam repeated the exercise. Though he grew more confident each time, his stamina was nothing of what it used to be. He was grateful to sit down. The therapist put a pencil and paper in front of him. A number of sentences were spaced out on the page.

"You're going to copy each sentence for me. Again, no rush. Let me know if you have any kind of difficulty," she instructed.

Sam grinned sheepishly. His handwriting wasn't great to begin with, but he gripped the pencil naturally. Annoyingly, however, his hand didn't want to keep steady. The first sentence looked like a first grader's.

"Don't be discouraged. Hand-eye coordination is something you'll need to build back up. This isn't bad at all. Try the next one."

He did; despite her encouragement, he was frustrated how little this exercise improved compared to the walking. In his peripheral vision, Dean was trying to give him a supportive smile.

"Very good. Now, turn the paper over, and sign your name for me."

Sam glanced at Dean for a moment. His brother clapped him on the shoulder.

"Sam Rose. You can do that," Dean said brightly. Mentally, Sam was thankful Dean was allowed to be here. He scribbled out the signature.

They did a few more exercises with the paper and pencil, then moved on to a set of flash cards. This was an endless series of generic shapes and symbols, always in different order, meant to gauge Sam's perception of stimulus. He got bored with it very quickly. There were only so many times he could repeat, 'circle, square, star, apple; square, triangle, tree, star…' and the like to a woman who looked three years younger than he was! Finally, he complained he was getting a headache.

"It's perfectly okay to stop. We've thrown a lot at you for the first session. You're doing great so far," the therapist placated. She handed a spare set of cards to Dean. "Those are for when you leave. I recommend once a day for at least three weeks. I'll call for a chair to get you back—"

"No, I can walk. Might as well practice," insisted Sam. He stood. Dean jumped up, ready to help. They headed back to the hospital room.

"Slow your roll, there, tiger. Don't wanna push yourself too hard," Dean tried to make light of this shift in attitude.

"We don't have time to mess around with drawings and games. You said yourself the leviathans are on to us. If I can function, then we can high tail it outta here." Much to his displeasure, he immediately wobbled a bit into the wall.

Dean took the opportunity to grip Sam by the shoulders. "Nice try. Have you looked at yourself? It's like you stepped out of the eighties, with your tight shirt and that attractive headband. They haven't even taken your stitches out! Now, I'm itching to get going too, but I can't do that unless I know you're okay."

"I am! I remember how to do everything, I'm not a drooling mess, and I'm not even hooked up to anything anymore. I'm fine."

"Sure, that's why the wall's keeping you upright right now." Dean firmly but gently pulled Sam along, supporting him. "Let's get back to the room. We'll talk from there." Anyway, they were attracting odd looks from passing hospital staff.

As he suspected, Sam was exhausted by the time they reached their destination. His recovering little brother fell asleep as soon as he hit the bed. Dean was okay with that. No need for Sam to get worked up and hurt himself all over again. He took the opportunity to pull out his latest disposable cell phone. Hopefully Frank could give them a leg up on this one.

"Who is this? How'd you get this number?"

"It's me, Frank. Dean Winchester. And you gave me this number," Dean sighed wearily.

"Oh."

"Listen, Sam and I are going to need an out of the way place to crash soon, someplace we can be for awhile. Sam's a bit…indisposed. We're about two hours from Cleveland."

"I'll see what I can do," muttered Frank. "Indisposed, eh? You boys do anything I told you to?"

_This is not helping_. "We did everything you told us, Frank. Sam had an emergency; someone else called the ambulance. What was I supposed to do?" Dean paused to reign himself in. "I used a completely new alias and everything, but the Gaines leviathan is back. Don't know how. Just know that he's out for blood. Sam can't hunt or fight like this. I need to keep him safe."

"Alright, alright, don't lose your head. Gimme some time to dig stuff up. Call you back."


	7. Chapter 7

Dean hit the 'end' button. A few feet away, Sam remained undisturbed. Oh, the beauty of medication…the less stressed Sam was, the easier his recovery should go. Dean was fine with that. He studied the huge, sleeping form in hospital pajamas—the bruised hand from the as-now unconnected IV ports, the taut gauze wrapped over thick brown hair.

Something about the weathered, scarred appearance made his brother look so much _older_. For crying out loud, Sam was 28! He should be trying to pursue a real career while girls begged for his attention. Hell, he could have been married with a kid. Maybe even with Jess, if the demon hadn't gotten to her. He certainly wouldn't be so screwed up in the head as to be stuck here. But no, hunting, monsters, the whole damn apocalypse wanted Sam. A part of Dean deep inside twisted in anguish for what his brother couldn't have.

_Cut that out; you've been down this road many times before. You tried to chase it yourself, and look how that turned out. There's no point moping about what's been proven over and over. At least you have each other. Sam still has that…_

A soft knock heralded Dr. Harvey's arrival with the latest news. As the white-coated man rounded the partition, Dean signaled him to keep his voice down.

"Ah. I'll trust you to relay all this to him later, then. I've had a chance to review yesterday's MRI, and spoke with Ms. Fischer about the session you just concluded," the doctor began in a low voice. "The evidence is looking very promising. Intracranial pressure is returning to normal, I didn't find any remaining mass on the scans, and your brother's motor skill and sensory response is right where we want it."

A genuine smile erupted on Dean's face. "That's great! So that means he can be discharged soon, right? I mean, he doesn't need to be here to practice is handwriting."

"I'd say perhaps in a week. Once we have a sense that vital functions such as balance are consistent."

"Another week?" Dean sputtered, losing the smile just as quickly. "No offense, Doc, but we can't really stay put much longer. I mean, I promise Sam'll take that extended leave and all. But we're kinda workin' on a schedule."

"I understand. If we feel we have the evidence we need, I may release him sooner. I'm simply giving you a realistic idea of Sam's recovery timeline."

"Trust me, Sam can make it happen faster when he needs to."

The doctor checked Sam's vitals, marked the results on his chart, and fixed Dean with an almost apologetic gaze. "Some things shouldn't be rushed, no matter what the circumstances. Just in case, however, I'll be back this evening with his written prescriptions." Dr. Harvey left. Dean watched Sam roll over in his sleep.

"I wanna do the best by you that I can, Sammy. Hang in there for me."

Three floors below Sam's window, Dr. Harvey stepped out of the ambulance entrance to smoke. Rainclouds ushered in an early twilight. Stray drops were already falling as he struck his lighter. Funny, how doctors could often be the biggest culprits for unhealthy habits. Many of his colleagues smoked like he did, or drank regularly. Caffeine addiction was practically a requirement of the profession. He supposed that at least health care professionals knew exactly what they were getting into.

One of the county trucks rolled up quietly. A tech team met it with a comatose patient. Dr. Harvey nodded to the team head, who returned the gesture.

"Linus," he greeted the tech.

"Cliff."

"Transfer?"

"Yup. Poor old thing's insurance just changed its approved facilities. Next of kin couldn't afford to go without the benefit rates." Linus the tech shook his head. "Ain't that the world we live in?"

"I know. One of the key institutions still to be had, healthcare, and its system is probably the most screwed up," sighed Dr. Harvey.

The ambulance got set and rolled out. As it turned the corner, Dr. Harvey spotted the silhouette of a man approaching from the street.

"Can I help you, sir? I'm afraid this is a restricted area." If the man heard him, he didn't show acknowledgement. Dr. Harvey began to feel very uneasy. "Excuse me, but if you're looking for assistance, you'll have to go down to the public entrance. They'll handle your emergency."

The man made no indication of a reply, but continued approaching steadily. Dr. Harvey backed up a couple steps, dropping his cigarette in a puddle. He could see the man's face now—it was fixed in a quite disturbing expression.

"I warn you, I'll call security!"

"Sam and Dean Rose," the man said in a guttural voice, his gaze downright maniacal. "I need to get to them. And to do that, I need you…" To Dr. Harvey's horror, the man's whole head reared back to expose monstrous jaws with pointed teeth and a reptilian tongue. He found he couldn't scream. Isolated in the shadows of the dumpster alley, the hellish assailant bore down on him…

Dr. Harvey emerged from the alley only slightly different. He rolled and flexed his shoulders as if fitting them onto his body. An odd smile lingered on his features. He swiped something—it might have been strawberry jam—from the corner of his mouth to his tongue with one finger. Looked himself over, making sure no other spots escaped his notice. He prided himself with always being careful not to ruin the clothing he needed. Speaking of which—

He fished through the pockets of his white coat. A passer-by might have thought Dr. Harvey was looking for his lighter. A spent pen, a prescription pad with a number of orders written out…ah, a shorthand list of current patients and their rooms (really? A doctor of nearly 30 years needed that?).

A surge of giddiness washed over him. What luck! Without even trying, picking the Winchesters' attending doctor to assimilate! Any healthcare employee of significance would have sufficed. This couldn't be more perfect. He could tell by Dean's attitude that the young fool depended on this doctor making his brother better, so they could escape. Now that dependence would be his downfall.


	8. Chapter 8

Dean snapped out of his dozing state when Dr. Harvey walked in. He couldn't put his finger on it, but something was ever so slightly off with the guy. His coat was rumpled, for one. Maybe he'd had to clean up from a patient's puking episode. And he was already wearing gloves, when he typically only put on right before going into an examination. "Everything okay, Doc?"

The man nodded curtly as he checked a sleeping Sam over. "Just bringing a little extra antibiotic for Sam. The nurse who changed his head dressing said the stitches looked inflamed. Has he been scratching or anything?"

"Come to think of it…I've had to swat his hand away a few times," Dean half-mused to himself.

"The healing incisions may have opened up a little," explained the doctor. "This is just a precaution. Shouldn't affect his recovery in the long run." He screwed a syringe into one of the ports hanging off of Sam's hand, delivering the medicine straight into his bloodstream.

"Um, you said you'd have the scrips for us?"

"Ah, yes. Almost slipped my mind. Let's see…" Dr. Harvey rummaged in his coat pockets, and when he found his prescription pad, leafed through the apparently long list of drugs to give out. "Samuel Rose. Antibiotics, oxycodone, anti-nausea. There you are. Call if you need anything else." Rather restless, he abruptly left.

"Oh…kay…" Dean said after him. _Weird_. He knew from the smell that the Doc smoked. Must have put a little something extra in his last hit. Whatever. They had what they needed; he could get Sam out when necessary now. For the moment, however, he could relax, and wait for Sam to wake up. He pulled a car magazine out of the rack by the bed.

Ten minutes later, all hell—well, as close to Hell as one could describe on Earth, when having actually _been_ there—broke loose.

All at once, Sam's eyes flew open, he bolted upright in bed, and made a horrible, strangled noise. Dean was instantly at his side. His little brother continued to hack and wheeze, clutching his chest. He couldn't breathe!

"Sammy! Sammy, listen to me, you have to calm down. I don't know what's happening, but you need to stop struggling. It'll make it easier," Dean choked, as panic threatened to overwhelm him as well. Sam seemed to attempt to relax, though the pinched sound of air trying to traverse his airway didn't change. Slowly, the color began to drain from Sam's lips. "Help! We need help in here!"

A nurse burst through the curtain hiding the door. She immediately removed Sam from Dean's grip, laying the bed back and pushing it out so they had room to work. Sam was already losing consciousness. "I've got anaphylaxis with an undetermined source in room 362, need epinephrine and an intubation kit stat!" she barked into the nurse call speaker.

"What's going on? He hasn't had anything except the same antibiotics for hours!" Dean sputtered, unsuccessfully trying to reach Sam again. The called-for team arrived with a cart of instruments, and he was pushed even farther away. Suddenly his brother twisted violently in the nurse's grip.

"He's seizing, hurry up!" she shouted. The whole room dissolved into chaos.

Dean watched, horrified, as they fought to get Sam breathing. They strapped him down, injected medication, threaded a tube down his throat, forced air into his mysteriously blocked lungs.

"Where is his attending?" asked one of the technicians.

"No time," said another. "We gotta get him to ICU, make sure he doesn't crash further." The whole operation prepared to move. The nurse pumped air into Sam with a large plastic bulb. In the team's wake, Dean scrambled to gather their few present belongings and follow. Emotion muddled his senses.

Before his eyes, all the tubes, wires, and machines that Sam had been able to shake the past few days came back. How could this happen? What had Dr. Harvey done? Once Sam was situated and stabilized, most of the crowd left. Only the nurse who had first arrived to help remained, drawing blood into a set of vials.

"Miss," croaked Dean. He just now registered the tears cooling his cheeks, stopping up his voice.

"I'm so sorry," she answered, and seemed to genuinely mean it. "Your brother suffered an acute reaction to something we gave him. We won't know what until we run blood tests." She taped gauze over the puncture in Sam's elbow.

"But he's not allergic to anything that I know of, food or medication. And he's been getting the same stuff the whole time."

"That's not entirely true," admitted the nurse.

"_What?_"

"Let me explain. With antibiotics, if we continually used the same one, eventually whatever bacteria it fended off would become tolerant, stronger. Then we'd have infection to deal with." She packed the samples up for transport, discarding what materials she no longer needed. "It's standard procedure to use multiple antibiotics. There are quite a few available these days. We very possibly could have given him one that he actually was allergic too. It's upsetting to discover like this, but it happens."

Dean swallowed hard. "He's…he's gonna be okay, right?"

"He's stable. We'll work from there." She patted Dean's shoulder on her way out.

Excitement over, Dean practically collapsed into the chair. This was not supposed to happen. Sam made it through surgery, proved himself more than capable in cognitive testing…he was ready to leave until this hit! Dean let the frustrated tears flow. It wasn't fair, even by their standards.

He took in his brother's current appearance, which reminded him entirely too much of looking at himself during his out-of-body experience. His hand strapped up once more with IVs. The breathing tube that forced his mouth to gap open. Little sticky pads with wires monitoring his head and chest. The bulky little clippy thing on his finger (his extremities were still regaining color). Dean didn't even know what that was for! But where Sam had looked older than his years before, all the instrumentation reduced him to the appearance of a helpless kid.

_Why? Why did things have to be so hard for Sam?_

A young, unfamiliar doctor walked in without knocking. Somewhere within Dean's frayed nerves, he registered that it was about 12:30 in the morning by this point. He jumped up and placed himself squarely between Sam's bed and the stranger. The doctor put his hands up.

"I'm just here to give you an update. It's…not comforting, to say the least. If you'd prefer, we can talk away from your brother's bed," he explained, looking every bit as exhausted and uneasy as Dean felt.

"Don't move," growled Dean. "Just talk."

"First of all, thanks to the actions of yourself and Julia, the nurse, Sam avoided any critical damage. We'll keep him sedated for a couple days just to let his system recover, but his brain and vital organ functions are intact. That's a very good start."

Dean smiled sarcastically. "Oh, that's great, aside from his ass now being stuck in ICU instead of about to be released. What's the not-comforting part? And where's his usual doc, by the way?"

"Dr. Harvey is, um…missing," the doctor said slowly. "And that's only the most recent trouble. Were you in the room the last time he saw your brother?"

"He woke me up with his bangin' around, yeah. Said he was giving Sam more antibiotics." Dean's heart plummeted when the doctor shook his head. _Oh, no…_

"He didn't inject antibiotics—it was an antiepileptic, and a high dose, too. The only reason for using so much would be if he purposely wanted to give Sam a seizure. And he did." They both took deep breaths before the young doctor continued. "I have a couple questions about his medical history. Has Sam had seizures before?"

_Oh boy._ "He's not epileptic, if that's what you're asking—"

"I mean has he ever had one _period_? It could have been connected to a serious illness, or a head injury he sustained…"

"He got a concussion fighting off a—thief, a few months ago. But he was cleared after that, no more, until the brain tumor thing came up."

The doctor gripped Dean's upper arm to stop his rambling. "If they treated him with a phenytoin, that exposure would have built antibodies up in his system. That's how allergies develop. This time he reacted with anaphylaxis, in addition to the drug-induced seizure."

Dean's head spun with all the new information. Sam had a volatile allergy to a medication meant to help his already screwed up head. Dr. Harvey apparently tried to kill him even though they didn't know about the allergy. And all on top of a leviathan on their tails. Shit! He should have seen it before. Dr. Harvey was behaving not quite himself when he drugged Sam. His hands were covered so Dean couldn't see the skin. Shit, shit, shit. Gaines was back in the hospital, and using new faces to get at them.

The doctor yelped as Dean pinned him to the wall. "And what do you plan to do, huh? Overdose him on painkillers?"

"What?" squeaked the doctor. Dean pressed remorselessly on the man's airway. "I-I don't want to do anything to him! I…ugg…volunteered to take the case because Harvey acted so weird!"

"How do I know you're not lying?"

"He—ack—can you at least let me breathe? It's not going to make sense, but I'll tell you what I can. Auuggh, ahheh. Wow, you've got quite an arm."

The corner of Dean's mouth twitched. "You should see what I do for a living. Spit it out."

"Okay, okay. For what it's worth, I've known Cliff Harvey for eight years. He mentored me through my residency, and he's still a close friend." The doctor paused at his own words. "Well, was. But I spotted him briefly in an empty room right before your brother started to code. His arms…they were all shriveled like he'd dipped them in acid. I'd never seen them like that as long as I've known him. He hurriedly covered them again with his sleeves, and then he sped out of sight like his life depended on it."

_Yup, Gaines is definitely jumping meatsuits. He could be anybody now!_

"And once I saw your brother's test results, I knew something was wrong. I applied for residency under Dr. Harvey because he had one of the best records in the business. He was like House, without all the Vicodin and reckless stunts. Saving people was _all_ he cared about! The real Harvey wouldn't have gone near trying to kill a patient in a million years."

Paranoid as he was at this point, Dean was starting to buy the man's story. This guy definitely knew something weird was going on. Wanted to stop it, too. But there were plenty of smooth-talking bastards in the monster world. If Dean was going to trust somebody—and Sam was going to need that now—he had to be pretty damn sure of who.

"Say I believe you," he hissed at the doctor. "I still need to know I can trust you completely—my way. 'Cause you have no idea what you just got yourself into."

"Anything! If I don't try to help your brother, then what the hell am I in this job for?"


	9. Chapter 9

Dean sighed. "You asked for it. Pull the blinds down." The doctor did so, while Dean pulled supplies out. Silver, salt, holy water. After digging through the cabinet under the sink, he found a sodium borate cleaner. But the last was just a standby defense. The doctor gave him a perplexed look. Dean gazed steadily back.

"You see, I hunt things. Things that would scare the piss out of any normal person. I usually try to avoid admitting this, too. Doesn't go over too well. Dr. Harvey? You're right; he's not Dr. Harvey anymore. He's a freaky-ass, flesh-eating monster that wants me and my brother dead. That's the short story, anyway."

Dean poured salt and holy water into a plastic cup on Sam's bed table. "These are the tools that tell me whether you're a regular human, or some creepy critter out to get me. Drink up."

"Seriously?" The doctor wrinkled his nose.

"Well, I could throw it in your face, it'd tell me the same thing. But I kinda like to stay on the good side of people who can help me. Do it."

He did. No reaction, except pulling a slight face.

"Alright, that's one hurdle clear. Take this, by the way. It'll keep me from having to do that over." Dean handed him an anti-possession talisman. "Next is a little less fun. You gotta nick your arm with this." He held out the silver knife.

"This is all very funny. If you're brother weren't legitimately in ICU, I would demand to know where the camera was," the doctor laughed nervously. "What is all this for?"

"The full answer? Rules out demon possession, shapeshifter, werewolf, and a few other nasties that lurk in your nightmares." The doctor barked out a laugh, but Dean's expression didn't flinch. They stared each other down in the dark silence.

"Okay, fine." The doctor rolled up a sleeve, and, biting his lip, dug the point of the knife into his flesh.

"Okey dokey," Dean said, almost cheerfully. "And to boot, you're not bleeding black ooze. That's one of the telltale signs of a leviathan."

"A _what_?" the doctor spouted indignantly.

"What you last saw as Dr. Harvey."

Dean was grateful to find nothing. Utter, blessed nothing. Perhaps he could catch a break for once. He let the poor man clean up at the sink while he put everything away. "You're officially supernaturally clean. And that's a relief, because I need somebody in this craphole that I can trust to get Sam better. What's your name, anyway?"

The doctor chuckled, a sound somewhere between disbelief and slap-happy. "Carter. Dr. Jacob Carter. And what do I do, now that I've passed your little tests? Wrangle up a million bucks of hospital funds?"

"You're the only one in or out of this room. Even I'm not budging. Make sure of that. Leviathan Harvey can jump to anyone else. I'm not taking the chance that he waltzes in here and offs Sam."

"And what if he takes me over?"

"Knowing he's out there is our advantage. You said you noticed his arms were disfigured, when they hadn't been before—this guy, before he became Harvey, had the same problem. Apparently it's the one thing he can't shake when he changes form. That's our first sign."

Carter took a shuddering breath. "You deal with this stuff for a living?"

"Every damn day," Dean assured him.

"How'd he hurt his arms?"

"You don't want to know, dude."

Carter, now that Dean was letting him do his job, checked Sam over and noted the data on his chart. "I might as well know the whole story, if I'm dodging him for you."

"Have it your way." Dean sat on the edge of Sam's bed, fixing Carter with pointed stare. "He pissed his boss off, and as punishment, had to _eat_ his own body." It would be a lie to say he didn't get some satisfaction from watching Carter turn green. "But unfortunately the boss got, um, sidetracked, and our friend managed to slip away."

Now Carter looked like the one who couldn't breathe. "Shouldn't he…shouldn't he be missing parts?"

"Another new development, one he admitted himself. As long as he's alive, he can go through the slow, painful process of regenerating. Fun, isn't it?"

"And how do you plan on killing it?"

"That's the best part—we haven't found anything that works yet." Dean's sarcastic smile was glued to his face. _Yup, time to get some form of sleep_. "Anything containing sodium borate will slow them down, but won't kill. Our working theory is that combining that with decapitation might be enough. So far he's the only one who's popped back up, and we didn't get to try it on him."

Carter stumbled back until he hit the rolling table, and leaned carefully on it. "Can't say you didn't warn me, I guess."

"End of the story is, he's after us. Specifically us. Once we're able to leave, he should get out of your hair. You can go back to saving lives without having to guard your own."

"One last question—if he's bent on killing you two, why do this? Why not attack you with a scalpel and be done with it?"

"I have no idea…"

It was late. They were both exhausted. Dean was losing his voice form talking. It went unspoken that Sam was alright for now and Carter knew enough to get on with. He left. Dean locked the door before allowing himself to flop into the reclining chair.

"It's gonna be a long few nights, Sammy."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: Sorry about the wait! I lost track of time between my two jobs. But considering this is already finished, split into chapters, and edited, I don't really have an excuse...::ducks head in shame::**

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><p>Two days later, Dean's nerves were still ready to explode. He was hiding out, plotting. He knew GainesHarvey/whoever leviathan was surely plotting, too. As promised, Dr. Carter was the only visitor to the room, taking care of everything they might need, including routine tasks typically relegated to nurses. He even brought Dean food.

Dean felt incredibly guilty putting so much on one person. This guy had other patients, a schedule, a life! At least, Dean assumed so. Surely it wore on him to have one case so unusually demanding—and it wasn't even his case initially. On the other hand, there was no limit to what Dean would do to protect Sam, and if this was what it took, he was willing to do it.

_Sam._ His little brother remained sedated and reliant on machines. Despite the initial conjecture, Dr. Carter worried how the seizure and allergic reaction might impact Sam's long-term prognosis, considering he was recovering from brain surgery. They simply wouldn't fully know until Sam woke up. Dean's insides clenched up with his desire to see those curious hazel eyes open again. The sound of the ventilator seemed to leech his own breath away. After everything, Sam looked so much smaller than his muscular, clunky, lanky self. This wasn't how a hunter was supposed to go.

Knocking drove Dean's feet clean off the ground in surprise. He went to the blind-covered window; Dr. Carter stood outside, showing a clear-skinned forearm to the window. Dean unlocked the door long enough to let him in.

"His vital signs have held steady. Given the…extraordinary circumstances, I think it's safe to wake Sam," the doctor said by way of greeting. "I have a feeling the longer we take with recovery, the harder it'll be to hold…Dr. Harvey at bay." He pulled a small syringe out of his pocket.

Dean stiffened instinctively.

"You really should watch yourself. Running on constant high alert, you could drive yourself into hypertension, or even a heart attack. That won't help your brother."

The comment sobered Dean up (and at the same time made him really wish for a drink), and he sat down in the bedside chair. He knew the risks. God, he knew the risks. Hunters spent long periods of time on high alert. What else was new? But the least he could do was try to comply. Carter was the only one they could trust.

"All this is is a mild stimulant we use when we need to bring someone back to consciousness before a sedative wears off," explained Carter. "Think of it like intravenous smelling salts. It means Sam will be very groggy for the next few hours, but we can start to assess his condition."

"Okay," rasped Dean. In the back of his mind, he noted that he should be drinking more water. Later. He watched the doctor first unhook, and remove, the breathing tube. For a scary few moments, all the instruments fritzed out, then returned to normal. Carter pushed the drugs into Sam's IV. The audible heartbeat ticked away in the silence. Dean bit his lip. Then he saw it—fluttering under Sam's eyelids. "Sammy?"

His little brother groaned as if trying to dig out of a grave. Limbs shifted sluggishly. Hands gripped at the sheets like a toddler's would when waking up. The hazel eyes half-opened, bleary.

"Sammy? Tell me you're wish us, Sammy," Dean croaked.

"Umwifyou?" came the hoarse, disoriented reply. Dean could have burst into tears all over again, but this had to be all business. Sam weakly explored the strange sensations around him. All the wires and tubes had to be confusing, not to mention that nasty, dry mouth and throat from the ventilator. Dean knew that one.

Carter started checking Sam's eyes, his pain response, etc. Sam didn't seem to appreciate the pen light in his face.

"Doo, wuhthehell?"

"Hey there, Sam," said the doctor, not letting up. "I'm Dr. Carter. I'm taking care of you now. Do you remember where you are? What happened?"

Sam coughed, a rough, ugly sound. Carter hooked up the obnoxious nasal oxygen, and fed Sam a small amount of water through a clean syringe. Once finished with that, the young hunter's IV hand drifted to his bandaged head.

"…S-Surgery…my head…"

"Very good. You were recovering from brain surgery, but you had an allergic reaction to some medication. We had to keep you asleep for awhile. Can you tell me how you feel?"

"D...D-Dean…?"

"I'm here, buddy," Dean told him from the other side of the bed. He took Sam's hand. Screw chick flick moments, he had his brother back. "You're okay. Tell him how you're feeling."

"Head sore…throat sore…chest…"

Carter nodded, making notes on the chart. "That's all to be expected. You were on a ventilator until now. Any specific pain? Double vision? Nausea?"

Sam shook his head as if it lay in hardening cement. "Hngry…" The mumbled word made Dean smile in spite of himself. Leave it to Sam to be hungry, even after waking up from a near-death experience. Leave it to his brother to come up with that.

"I'll see what I can do," chuckled Carter. "I want you to keep resting, okay? When you're feeling a little stronger, we'll need to do a few tests." He put the chart down, clapped Dean's shoulder reassuringly, and headed for the door.

A pounding sound came from the other side of the wood. All three of them froze. It wasn't a normal knock, almost as if someone was…kicking? Carter peered through the blinds. "It's Julia! She's got her hands full of some kind of covered tray. And long sleeves and gloves."

"That's gotta be our guy. Damn, she was in here taking blood right after Sam went downhill!" Dean mentally kicked himself. Of course the leviathan would want to make sure he knew where Sam ended up.

"What do I do?"

"I don't know, see what she 'wants,' and convince her to do something else? It's fairly busy out there; if she's not willing to make a fuss, she should back down."

"And if she doesn't?"

Dean slipped behind the door, cleaner in hand. "I'll be on standby."

Carter opened the door a fraction.

"Dr. Carter, are you okay? You know, it's probably not the healthiest move to keep such a tight guard on this one patient by yourself," the nurse commented innocently.

"Why are you here, Julia?" Carter tried to sound unassuming.

"Food was ordered to this room. I'm just delivering."

"You have to be mistaken. The patient is still sedated, and his only visitor already has food."

Dean intensely disliked not being able to see the enemy. However, if they were going to pull this off, he had to stay put unless absolutely needed. He wished he had the Colt here, wished it still had magic bullets…

"There must have been a mix up," Carter was saying. "You're not needed here. Please go about your rounds."

"You know, with the way you're acting, it's almost like you're hiding something." The door moved inward a few inches. Carter shifted, and Dean heard a sharp grunt of—pain?—from the other side of the door. In fact, he could have sworn he heard a faint _crack_.

"Your arm seems to be troubling you. I'm not sure that's the best condition for a nurse to work in. Now, I'm going to ask you one more time." Wow, give the doc some credit.

"Fine," hissed Julia, her voice suddenly dagger-like. "I know you're behind there, Dean. You can't hide out forever. It's just a matter of time. Tell Sam I said hi." She released her hold on the door. Carter locked it.

Dean wandered back toward Sam's bed. "Well, that answers a couple questions for us."

"Like what?" asked Carter.

"Like why he—well, she—didn't gank us when she had the chance." Dean studied his own calloused, scarred palm. "Those new arms aren't just building up. They're weak. I think you fractured something when you grabbed her."

Carter thought, nodding after a moment. "She definitely reacted to them being touched."

"_She can't full-on fight_," crowed Dean. "We might actually have a chance, here."

"How long is the regeneration supposed to take?"

"No idea. But when he-she was still Gaines, he said it was a slow process. Which means while she knows our weakness, we know hers, too."


	11. Chapter 11

Sam didn't need to be told to take it easy, anymore. When he first woke up, his lungs felt like overinflated balloons in his chest. His throat was bone dry, and there was a nasty aftertaste that refused to go away. The fuzzy vision and hearing he could handle; not the first time he'd been given sedatives. He had enough awareness to register Dean mother-henning him to the brink of unconsciousness. Dean was still in one piece.

However, they remained stuck in the hospital. Not only was Sam confined to bed, but he had to take water from a syringe due to having had a tube stuck down his throat for two days! Ugh, he didn't have the energy to deal with this. He wanted to sleep, except this new doctor, Carter, wanted him to try to work off the rest of the sedative in his system.

"Don't stress yourself, Sammy," Dean told him for the fifteenth time. "Carter and I got this covered until you're back on track."

"I'm not dying, Dean. Would you quit calling me Sammy?"

His older brother smiled. "There's the kid I know. I was starting to think this whole fiasco with your head had done something after all. You never let me get away with calling you Sammy so much!"

"Well it ends now."

"Though for your information, I thought you were dying in front of me two days ago, so I think I got a right to call you what I want," quipped Dean, glancing out the window. Darkness had settled outside the myriad building lights.

Sam let it drop there. He could understand watching family seem to slip away right before his eyes. He'd watched Dean do just that, way back when they escaped Yellow Eyes only to crash the Impala. And by all accounts, the sight of himself seizing and unable to breathe was not easy to witness. "Dean…I'm sorry."

"Don't go doing that again, we've been through this—"

"I still hate the fact that I can't just shake this and let us get out of here!"

Dean gripped his shoulder almost to the point of pain. "I don't blame you for this. We've got a leviathan circling, that's the plain truth. It's sheer dumb luck that his arms aren't regenerated enough to physically fight. So focus on the fact that we have time to get you better, not the annoying setback that you happened to be deathly allergic to one medication they gave you. I'll kick your invalid ass."

Sam smiled. Only his brother…that's why he loved the guy despite all the crap they both pulled over the years. In the lapse of silence, he gave in to the urge to yawn and scratch at his healing scalp.

"Quit it. Don't think I won't kick your ass for other reasons," Dean said plainly. But his ever-boyish grin was in place.

"Wouldn't it be easier to just let me sleep this off?"

"You've been unconscious waaay too much lately, dude. Doc wants to see that you're functioning all right after all the excitement. I'd like to be sure, too."

"Well, you're doing a lousy job of entertaining me, so forgive me if I'm having trouble keeping my eyes open. You got any cards or something?"

"Well, we _are_ behind on your little brain exercises…"

Sam groaned. "Seriously?"

"Doc's orders, little bro," Dean reminded him. He was enjoying this way too much. "And you want something to pass the time. Come on, let's make sure what's left of your brain isn't scrambled."

Sam conceded grudgingly. Dean had a point about passing the time. Not to mention it was imperative that he be able to run on all cylinders in order to hunt. A lump formed in his stomach. What if he couldn't? What would he and Dean do if he _couldn't hunt_ anymore? More than ever, he wanted to just curl back up into oblivion.

"Hey, you in there?" Dean broke into Sam's thoughts, waving the first flashcard in his face. Sam batted it away.

"Dean…we already know the problems my hallucinations caused during hunts. What if…what If I never recover enough to hunt safely?"

"Dude, hunting's _never_ been safe—"

"You know what I mean. I'm not letting you risk your life because I can't watch your back properly."

"This is turning into a damn therapy session…"

"_Dean_!"

"Okay, okay!" His older brother looked him squarely in the eye. "You know what I think? I think you're going to end up that way unless you _decide_—just like you decided Hallucifer and his pranks weren't real—you're going to get better. _You_ have to believe it, no ifs, ands, or buts. And you have to believe I will do anything in my measly human power to help you. Understand?"

"Yeah." Sam was still torn inwardly. He appreciated Dean's continual efforts to keep both of them in good spirits, and yet he was disappointed in himself for dragging Dean in mental circles of 'what if.' His gaze fell to the cards in Dean's hand. An unexpected thought made him smile.

"Say I decide to believe, and get to work on those flashcards. If I do that, will you let me sleep?"

The proposal made Dean laugh out loud. "Maybe. Or I could decide you're doing so good it's time you caught up on your ten mile runs."

Further banter was cut off by a knock on the door. Dean checked the window before letting Dr. Carter in. The tired man looked nervous.

"I'm not sure how you want to go about this…I'll need to do another MRI as part of the final assessment on Sam's recovery. But with that…thing…lurking in the hospital, I don't know what you want to do. I can't legally discharge Sam without test evidence that he's not in danger of complications."

"Wow, um…" Dean bit his lip while he puzzled over this development.

"We have to risk it," Sam determined. He knew none of them liked it. "I, for one, think it's worth it to make sure I'm not a ticking time bomb, in _or_ out of the hospital. Dean, you can follow along, and stand guard outside the room like you did before."

"I don't like this," retorted the older Winchester.

"Well, we can deal with it here, or we can deal with it in the middle of nowhere, when it's just the two of us and we're staring straight at someone or something that wants to kill us."

The look on Carter's face plainly said he was doing everything possible to pretend this wasn't the strangest conversation in his life. "For all he's been through, Dean, your brother has a good grasp of the situation."

"Ugh, fine! But you bet your asses I'll be carrying some of that cleaner and my hunting knife," Dean growled at them. "Hospital or no hospital, we're heading into enemy territory.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that…" sighed Carter, throwing his hands up. At his suggestion, Dean put on a spare pair of scrubs and one of those chintzy do-rags that hospital staff had started to opt for over the disposable caps. The less conspicuous they looked, the better.

"You realize the likelihood that our friend is watching the room to begin with."

"I'd like to think I still know this hospital better than the monster does. Trust me, at least for now."

Sam rolled his eyes. "Can we just get this over with?"

Dr. Carter prepped all the monitors and hookups to move Sam. Dean filled a small bottle with sodium borate, and, ignoring the doctor's obvious disapproval, stuck the leather-sheathed knife in the back of his waistband. His look said, _no chances, period_. Then they unlocked the bed wheels.

"Here goes nothing," mumbled Dean. They edged out into the hallway. The hospital traffic seemed ordinary. No one stuck out as being especially alert or suspicious, not that Dean was relieved by this. He let Carter direct the mobile bed while his own attention flitted continually from face to face. Although Sam tried to do his part looking out as well, his head still didn't quite want to focus. Such an inability left him frustrated regardless of what Dean told him.

They made it to a delivery elevator without incident. Carter explained that it was a less obvious route, and actually came out closer to MRI than the primary elevators. Only thirty feet of open hallway to cross. Sam watched Dean practically vibrate with tension.

"Get ready," warned Carter as their ascent slowed.

The group bolted—if one could call it that—as soon as the door opened. Dean squared himself outside the MRI suite, covering Sam and the doctor. Sam's heart monitor started beeping wildly as they left his brother behind. He struggled to keep his focus straight. Carter's hand patted his shoulder the same way Dean would have.

"Come on, let's do this." They awkwardly maneuvered Sam from his bed to the paper-covered table for the MRI. As if aware of the time constraint, all the wires and tubes seemed to make every effort to tangle and slow them down. Sam finally lost patience and yanked the sensors out from under his shirt. "Now wait—"

"No time, Doc," he said over the protests, hitting the monitor's power button to stop the screeching alarm. It didn't help his head. "Like you said, let's do this. I think I can go this long without knowing exactly how fast my heart's beating. Start 'er up."

Dr. Carter's torso rose and dropped in a sigh, but he retreated to the operation booth. Sam held as still as possible. He hoped Dean was alright outside the thick walls. The closed-in sense that came with being inside the MRI machine didn't help. Such a narrow tube, the loud clicks and beeps, it was enough to make anyone claustrophobic. He wondered if this was how Dean felt, back when he had woken up in a box six feet under. The test couldn't go fast enough.

Without waiting for the table to return all the way to position one, Sam wobbled into a sitting position. Sluggish reflexes, yes; however, no dizziness that he could sense. Carter scrambled to help him.

"Get me to the booth—we need those results now," commanded Sam.

"You're not supposed to—first I need to—we can't—!"

"We have to. If the leviathan comes after us now, we might not get another chance."

Carter looked like he was finally reaching the end of his tolerance. "Just for posterity, we're getting into 'risking my entire career' territory."

"And believe me, we're grateful. Very few people are willing to anything near this once they learn what we do." Sam allowed his arm to drape over Carter's shoulders in order to support him to the booth, IV pole in tow. They sat in front of a set of screens displaying various forms of data. An abstract art representation of Sam's head and neck drew his attention the most.


	12. Chapter 12

"Alright…" muttered Carter as he fiddled with the controls. The shapes and colors morphed within the human outline. "Here's the area that's healing from the surgery. As you can see, there are a couple minor areas of renewed trauma around the site, probably from the seizure. Under normal circumstances, I would keep you for a couple more weeks on a specific drug regimen to ensure minimal lasting damage. But this is survivable."

"What…what would it do on its own?"

"Scar, most likely. Not enough to increase pressure, and given the placement of the damaged areas, you shouldn't experience any critical sensory impairment. However, I can't guarantee there won't be occasional…distortion."

Sam stared at the man. "You mean like hallucinations?"

"I wouldn't rate them to be _that_ strong—"

"So we're basically back where we started."

"—No, it's not quite the same. From your earlier reports, you were dealing with a mass that disrupted function because of its growth. Whatever remains of this is not causing pressure, neither will it change physically, aside from perhaps shrinking. I'm confident that in time you will learn to work around any effects that do arise. But they shouldn't get worse."

Sam's sore chest hardened into a lump of dread. So even after all that effort, he wasn't completely rid of the head games. As if just to spite him, Lucifer materialized in the back corner. No. This couldn't really be happening. He _had _to be imagining things, letting his fear get away with him.

"Bit overboard this time, wasn't it? Something must be off if you're resorting to cutting your head open to get rid of me. Entertaining, though. Like a puppy too stupid to move on when his ball rolls off a cliff," the devil commented. "I mean, you could have _died_! Then what would be the point?" The longer Lucifer reclined in the corner, the harder a time Sam had not showing that he was seeing things. Or, well, thought he was seeing things. He hoped he was just getting carried away…

"Sam? You still with us?" Carter's voice broke in. He made to start checking Sam over.

"Huh? No, I'm okay, just…letting it sink in," Sam gulped back.

"I wouldn't worry too much. As you continue recovering, you should be able to return to your normal life," Carter assured him.

_Yeah, right. Business as usual._

Carter pulled him slowly to his feet. "Well, we'd better get going. Dean's sure to have trouble if we keep him waiting." They returned to the bed, Sam flopping more than climbing into it. His head was starting to hurt, and he really needed something real to eat. Anything.

Dean jumped out of his skin when the door behind him opened. His face broke simultaneously into relief and renewed apprehension as Sam and Dr. Carter emerged. "About time. I was starting to lose my mind out here."

"What happened?" asked Sam, tensing. His brother didn't seem to be the worse for wear.

"That's just it—nothing. Absolutely nothing out of the ordinary moved since you went in. I don't like it. Our black-blooded friend has to be up to something, but he's waiting for the right moment. We need to get back to the room, now."

They crammed back into the service elevator. Carter's face was white, as well as his knuckles from holding onto the bedframe. Dean kept looking at Sam for clues as to how the testing went. Sam himself was just glad the heart monitor no longer betrayed how faster his heart was racing. Shit was definitely about to hit the fan, and Dean was pretty much standing alone. How was he supposed to fight when Sam was unable to, not to mention the who-knew-how-many innocent bystanders in the hospital?

The 'supernatural spidey-sense' started going off as they neared his ICU room. Sam couldn't explain it, but he knew something was wrong behind the door. "Wait," he told Carter. His bed coasted to a stop. "Dean should check out the room first."

His older brother shot him a sideways glance, one they often used on hunts when everything came down to the wire. Weapons hidden to the side closest to the wall, Dean snuck through the doorway without exposing them all.

A solid-built, jumpsuit-clad man stood in the center of the dark room. Even in the shadows, Dean could make out the unnatural grin that appeared when they locked gazes.

"Dean, Dean, Dean." The man shook his balding head, clucking his tongue. "You have to be the most entertaining prey on the face of the planet. So determined to stay out of reach…and so frantic when cornered. Like a mouse."

"Helluva dangerous mouse, though," Dean growled back. Unfortunately, his bravado was nowhere near as steely as his grip on the hunting knife.

"How cute. I have to say I'm sorry to see the chase come to an end. So it is with all good things."

The leviathanized janitor started cleaning his nails with another knife stolen from Dean's bag. "Ha, yeah, it's been so much fun. You sure that ol' Dicky doesn't want to keep us as novel pets or something?"

"You overestimate your worth. He and his flunkies don't even know I still exist! A perk of being sentenced to bibbing, only to have you monkeys crash the party. But they will know. He most certainly wants you out of the way, and when I bring him your corpses, I'll be redeemed beyond heroship!" The cocky bastard afforded himself a bark of a laugh.

This was so, so not good.

"I gotta hand it to you two, though. Your brother's a hard one to put down. I had to use _four times_ the dose of that drug to have a chance at adverse effects, and even with the unexpected reaction, he's still alive! Humans, you're like cockroaches sometimes."

"Well, you're one to talk," smirked Dean. "In fact, maybe that's been your problem all along. Talking."

The leviathan snarled at him and lunged forward, but Dean was ready. He hurled the open bottle of cleaner right into the monster's face and chest, quickly followed by his hunting knife. The burly body went down after three good blows to the neck. Unfortunately, the knife wasn't wieldy enough to fully decapitate. Within minutes, Big Baddie would be up again, and pissed.

Dean threw himself at the cabinet next to where the bed would sit. He managed to stuff all of Sam's clothes into the duffle bag except for his outer jacket. Good enough. He fumbled through the door to where Carter and Sam waited. Both attempted to speak.

"No time, gotta go. Go go go go go." Dean tossed the bag on Sam's lap and shoved the bed the way they came.

"W-What happened in there?" squawked Carter.

"Trouble. Just please tell me Sam can walk out of here."

"It's possible. I wouldn't recommend it. There's still a lot of healing—"

"I'm sorry, Doc, we don't have much of a choice anymore," Sam interrupted him, voice tight. "I'll do what you suggested, and anyway we're gonna lay low for a good long time." Instead of the elevator, Dean turned the bed towards the emergency stairs. Sam worked on disconnecting the rest of the tubes and hookups despite Carter's protests. A little blood trickled in the wake of the IV. A ways behind, a guttural shout echoed after them.

They came to a halt at the stairs without hitting the wall too hard. Dean grabbed the bag and wrenched one side of the bed rails down. "Thanks Doc, really. Now go tell the nearest desk that you have a family emergency, and get the hell outta Dodge. Don't go back that way. He knows you helped us, and if he gets the chance, he'll kill you. Stay away until he has time to give chase. I guarantee he will; you'll be safe after that. Go!"

Carter stood there working his mouth like a fish while Dean hauled Sam through the stairwell door. Four flights to the parking lot. _Damn_. Suddenly the doctor was beside them again.

"Quickest way is down these stairs anyhow," grunted the man, who bolstered Sam from the other side. "Might as well make sure you reach the bottom in one piece."

"Thanks," breathed Sam. They shuffled their way slowly onward—much too slow for Dean's taste, though it couldn't be helped—and soon caught sight of parking lot lights shining through glass. Four floors above their heads, a door smashed open.

"Go, Carter," Dean insisted hoarsely. "Get out of here, I got 'im the rest of the way."

Carter nodded. "Good luck."


	13. Chapter 13

Bursting into fresh air, the boys were immediately struck with a harsh nighttime wind. Sam, with his short sleeves and bare feet, nearly collapsed with trembling.

"Come on, Sammy, I gotcha." Dean threw Sam's jacket around his shoulders, and pulled him onward. They only had to round one corner of the building to reach the ER side, where the Impala was parked. Even in the dark, Dean could pick out the glossy black muscle car. "One foot in front of the other. Don't look back." He didn't look back either.

Only when Sam was safely piled in the passenger seat did Dean spot the figure running toward them. He practically vaulted over the hood to reach the driver's side, cranked the engine, and pealed out of the parking space. It was a miracle he didn't hit anything.

Sam gasped for air, still shivering and his expression pained. The head dressing had been knocked akimbo in their rush. He managed to find a couple old napkins to clean up the blood from his IV, which looked minor, at least.

"How you holding up, Sammy?" Dean asked anxiously.

"I told you to stop calling me that."

"Good enough for me. But let me know if you start feeling off. Anything. No way were you in shape to bolt like that." Dean fished in his pockets for his cell phone. "I gotta call Frank."

"You've been talking to Frank?"

"Yup. Knew we'd have to find a place to hole up—yeah, hello?"

"Who is this? How'd you get this number?" snapped the rough voice on the other end.

"It's Dean, Frank! Listen, I don't have time for paranoid games. We got flushed out, so whatever you got, I need to know now," Dean shot back. In his peripheral vision, Sam winced at the near-shouting.

"Oh," said Frank. "You said you were an hour out of Cleveland?"

"Two hours, Frank."

"Gotcha. Let's see…northeast Ohio…Mosquito Lake's cabins are closed for the winter, and there's plenty of little speck-on-the-map towns nearby for supplies. That'll get you started at least. How's Sam?"

Apparently Sam heard the last comment, because he gave a half-hearted moan in the phone's direction. Dean couldn't help cracking a smile. "He's in one piece, says hi. I'm seein' signs for I-76. Can you get me a route from there?"

A hubbub of rustling paper came from Frank's end. "Scouring the maps now…"

Dean purposely avoided checking the clock by the time they entered the national park. He had gone nonstop except for one necessary pause for gas and caffeine. Sam was long asleep, which Dean allowed as long as he frequently checked his little brother's pulse and breathing. It was a wonder Sam could still hold together.

Thankfully the drive through the park itself only took ten minutes. All the trees were beginning to blur together. Dean almost missed the flash of dark cabins in his headlights. He made an erratic turn for the closest one.

They rolled to a stop on the far side of the cabin. Reluctantly, Dean reached out to wake Sam. "Hey, dude, we're here. I need you conscious long enough to get your gigantic ass inside."

Sam roused just as reluctantly. His movements were stiff (and let's face it, he was not in the greatest shape before getting crammed into the car), his head obviously still bothering him. Dean had to verbally coax him almost constantly to make the twenty-foot transition. Once in the cabin, the younger Winchester sank into the nearest cabin bed without care that it didn't have any kind of sheets. Dean returned to the car to get their bags, what snacks they had left, and a few old blankets kept for situations like these. He tucked Sam in before anything else.

"Is that warm enough? Here, let's get your jacket off to use as a pillow."

"Uhnnn," Sam protested to being moved again. "Head hurts…"

Dean sighed, more from exhaustion than anything. "I know, that's why I'm getting you a pillow. Then you can get some real sleep."

"No, I mean it _hurts_. I think the hospital meds are wearing off."

"Shit." Dean glanced around at their few possessions. They always had pain meds, of course, but Sam was on some strong stuff after what he'd been through. And they had yet to do anything with the prescriptions Dr. Harvey had written pre-leviathan.

"I'm never gonna get any sleep if this keeps up…" groaned Sam.

"That's what I was afraid of. The closest town is about twenty minutes, but who knows if they have a 24-hour pharmacy or not. And you're not exactly in a condition to keep going."

"I'll be okay here." Sam pried his eyes open enough to meet Dean's gaze. "Please. At any rate, I'm gonna need the antibiotics and stuff. If we get stocked up now, then we don't have to worry about going anywhere for awhile."

"Fine, geez. But the rules still apply. _Anything_ happens, you tell me." Dean slapped Sam's phone into the IV-bruised hand. "Try to rest up."

"Not going anywhere."

One more time, Dean stepped out into the chilly night.

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><p><strong>AN: I know, it's short, but that's how the chapters fell this time. But now we're just down to making sure the boys are okay. I mean, they're going to be okay, right? =P Thanks for reading; this has been one of my highest-reviewed stories! Keep your eyes peeled for the next one!**


	14. Chapter 14

Sam never imagined how soul-refreshing it would be being able to wash his hair again. And that included having to scrub carefully around the spiky patch beginning to grow back in. It certainly was an improvement just to no longer need the constricting band around his head. He relished standing in the steamy bathroom, dressed except for his shirt, feeling the rough stitches puckering as they healed.

Beyond the dinky, tiled space, he heard the cabin door open and close. Rustling and thumping preceded his brother's voice.

"You conscious in there, or do I have to come rescue you?" Dean announced himself.

Sam opened the door, not too happy to emerge into the drafty main room. "I'm fine, Dean. Did you get the groceries I asked for?" Dean rolled his eyes as he cracked open a couple beers for them. He indicated the large brown bag on the folding table.

"Don't know what the hell you find in that rabbit food. Black hole of taste, if you ask me…"

"Your opinion doesn't matter in this case. My best chance of getting back on track includes eating as healthy as possible." Sam dug around in the bag until he came out with a prepackaged convenience store salad. "Speaking of getting back on track, it's probably about time we removed the stitches. They're getting uncomfortable."

Dean snatched up their first aid kit, with which he had been keeping the area of surgery clean for the past week and a half. Sam stiffly settled onto the bed with his salad and a plastic fork. They may trust each other with their lives, but he was still nervous at having even Dean go at the back of his head with scissors.

This was by far the weirdest sensation Sam had ever experienced, and that was saying a lot. He would feel a couple snips—trying not to register them as pain—and then a spine-tingling pulling through the skin. He had trouble not thinking the suture material was scraping right against his skull. Suddenly he wasn't hungry at the moment. The process repeated over and over. By the fifth one, his scalp was definitely tender.

"Can we—can we take a break for a bit?" he finally had to ask Dean. His older brother stopped poking at Sam's head.

"You okay? Gonna hurl or something?"

"No, I just…need to stretch my neck out…" Dean let Sam get up, pace, flex his stiff muscles. He realized he was shaking. This was just like any other self-done medical treatment, right? Why was he so on edge?

He caught Dean watching. "Sam…"

"You're not doing anything wrong, Dean," Sam tried to reassure them both. "I don't know why I…this…"

Dean shrugged. "It's not exactly familiar territory. I mean, concussions we've done. All manner of blows to face, neck, you name it. But a hole drilled in your head? Anybody'd be jumpy about dealing with that in the field. C'mere." He took Sam by the arm, grabbing a little hand mirror they used for checking harder-to-see injuries. After using a towel to clear the bathroom mirror, he spun Sam around and held up the small one.

"See for yourself. Yeah, it looks a little funky with the redness and the hair growing back in. Beyond that, it looks fine. No gaping holes, no raging infection. You're gonna be okay." They headed back into the main room.

"Dean…the doc said there's a chance I'll have scarring in my brain," Sam said quietly, "without weeks of medication and therapy and all that. He said…I might still have hallucinations."

Dean's face looked like a brick wall had run into it. "What?"

"After the last seizure, and allergic reaction…it's not supposed to be as bad as before, but a lot happened in a short amount of time, when I was more vulnerable than ever…it makes sense…"

"Damn." Dean leaned on the bedframe for support. "All of that just to end up back at square one?"

"Well, not completely. Dr. Harvey _did_ say the worst symptoms were because of pressure, and that's gone," Sam pointed out.

"But I still have to possibly keep Halucifer from running off with you! What am I supposed to do with that?"

"Just what you said, I guess. Find a way. I've still been able to hunt, aside from the seizures, and those should be over." Sam returned to his seat, absent-mindedly fingering the aging scar in his left palm. "Build on stone number one, right? Someone told me that once." He managed a semi-confidant smile, which Dean thankfully returned. Sam handed him the little medical scissors. "Might as well get this over with. It looked like you only had a few left."

Dean nodded. "Yeah. Hang in there."

The older Winchester made quick work of the remaining stitches, and Sam could finally relax a little. He sipped at his beer, not quite ready to try eating again. Dean dropped into a chair opposite Sam, digging into the burger he'd picked up for himself. "I better not catch you picking at what's left, either. It ain't been easy keepin' a hospital standard."

"Dean, you're doing everything you can. We both are. It's not your fault we had to bust out of there. Look, would it help if I promised to behave?"

"When have you ever behaved?" chuckled Dean as he punched at Sam's arm. The motion knocked over the stack of flash cards from their perch on one of the bedposts. "Which reminds me. Quiz time!"

"Aw, wouldn't you rather go over the possible hunt I found online?"

"Already called someone in on it, while you were napping earlier. _We_ are going to make sure you're head's good and back together before we go anywhere. And you promised to behave, so behave."

"I didn't actually promise, I just asked if it would help!" Sam protested. Dean handed him the abandoned salad and held up a card.

"Well, I'm taking it as a promise 'cause it would help in this case—and don't give me the bitchface."

That just goaded Sam into exaggerating his expression on purpose; Dean threw his own impression right back. Why they were acting like children was anybody's guess. But it made Sam laugh. After momentary confusion, Dean joined in. Sometimes lightening the mood was all they could do. Maybe it was all that they needed.


End file.
